


Rebel(s) Rebel

by echo_grace



Category: Push (2009)
Genre: (Temporary?) One Shot, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo_grace/pseuds/echo_grace
Summary: Choices have consequences. This barely registers as a skirmish in Division's eyes, but it's the beginning of their end . . . maybe.
Relationships: eventual Nick/Cassie
Kudos: 9





	Rebel(s) Rebel

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to hoping that purging some fic-beginnings from my brain-drive will release some space for my Tron trilogy to wrap up. This fic may eventually continue beyond this one-shot, but I don't know if, when, or how it'll happen. I may even need a cowriter to start ironing things out . . .

AFTER THE FIGHT

He’s snoring when Cassie jumps on him, one knee landing in his gut so he feels like he’s about to puke as he jackknives from prone to vertical.

“He’s gone, he’s gone!” she crows, waving her notebook in his face and threatening his nose. “Kira followed your note, and Carver’s _dead_!”

Emily and Hook barge in while Nick’s still trying to sort out what’s going on between gasps, panicky at the sudden noise. Pinky kindly pulls Cassie off him so Nick’s stomach can stop hovering in the base of his throat. Nick nods his thanks as he sits up and swallows. “Think you killed my spleen, kid,” he says in lieu of something more intelligent; Emily grabs Cassie’s notebook, distracting her from smart-mouthing back.

“This . . . could be a good thing,” Emily murmurs, eyeing the page.

“Or a very, very bad thing,” Hook says, then glares at Nick. “You told Kira to kill Carver?”

Nick gives him the universal _I don’t know_ shrug-flail gesture. It was part of his two-hour mindwipe, so Cassie would know better than he does.

“Why would one less Pusher in the world be a bad thing – especially since he’s Division?” Pinky asks.

“Because Carver’s one of their best agents. Division will go after any and all who might’ve been involved with his last case,” Hook says. “Even if she’s their new favorite guinea pig, Kira has given them her death certificate. No amount of Pushing will undermine a Watcher or Sniff’s report in time to save her – she’s dead when they land.”

Even Cassie sobers at that, her thirteen-year-old exuberance bleeding out to pale skin and too-old eyes once again. But Nick shakes his head, his revived internal optimist refusing to back down so soon. “No, Kira will find a way out somehow.”

“As the former Division operative, Nick –”

“She was an agent first,” Nick interrupts. “An agent’s word has to trump a lab rat’s claim. Otherwise Division could be manipulated from the inside, right?”

Hook’s mouth closes, his argument silenced.

“ _Is_ she an agent?” Emily asks. “Or has she always been a mole?”

Nick’s eyes trail to Cassie, who sways in place and rubs at her forehead. She offers no answers. “I don’t know,” he says.

An awkward moment of silence passes among them, then Pinky huffs, “So what do we do now? We still haven’t figured out what to do with the drug.”

“We hide it,” Cassie decides, returning to them. “Somewhere where it never stays still for long – and Nick shouldn’t be involved in this conversation.” She turns wide, glazed eyes to him, already blinking back tears. “I’m sorry, Nick, but the minute Division finds out you survived the injection –”

“I’ll be patient double-oh-one,” Nick agrees, nodding. Then shakes his head to rid himself of the James Bond joke that tries to spill out, and sighs. “Guess this is my exit, then.” He grabs and shakes out his hoodie, slipping it on and zipping it up as he heads for the door. Grabbing the handle, he can’t resist giving a last standing order to his little band of rebels: “You three take care of her,” he demands.

“Of course,” Hook says, his earlier glare softened to blankness by sympathy and regret. “She’s our best chance of surviving the next decade, at least.”

It’s not what he wants to hear, but it’s a start. “And you,” Nick says, shaking a finger at Cassie as his throat catches. “Put some damn clothes on. You’re sending crazy signals.”

She sob-laughs at him, which is better than crying.

He walks out without saying goodbye, wishing he had something for his hands to fiddle with as he heads for the elevator –

“Nick!” A blond whirlwind crashes into his chest before he can do more than turn around. He mentally presses the Down button as they cling to each other, burying his face into the sweat-and-chemical stink of her hair to hide his burning eyes. “You _will_ get out,” she whispers to his bicep, then wiggles straighter. “We’ll be waiting for you,” she tells his shoulder. Her head raises, forcing him to pull back a little. “I promise,” she says, and rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to his like she’s sealing a deal before wrenching away. “See you soon.”

The elevator dings. Nick blinks at Emily’s raised eyebrow from the doorway. “I’ll make sure to tell your mom what a loud-mouthed brat you’ve become,” he throws out.

Cassie raises a one-fingered salute as the doors open and Emily’s eyebrow lowers. Yeah, their communication’s fucked up, but they understand each other, and that’s the point.

He spends the next several weeks bouncing around the globe, never staying longer than the next ticket or hitched ride will allow. When he eventually accidently-on-purpose lands in NYC, his feet turn toward Coney Island like they’ve been magnetized. Wandering through the rides and fairway makes for a nice walk down memory lane, even tinged with the lingering shadows of doubt _(was she playing me even then? Was I part of a case? a convenient distraction? a momentary vacation?)_ , so he spends his last few dollars and a little power to cheat at one of the games and passes his new neon stuffed frog to the sniffling kid slouched on a bench a few doors down.

“Hey, take care of this for me, will ya?”

Nick almost ruffles the kid’s hair as he lights up with joy, but the mom’s eyes are already narrowing with suspicion, so he tucks his hand back in his pocket and keeps walking. How sad is it, that even the _normal_ peoples’ world is so dark and threatening.

His feet stop moving when he reaches their rollercoaster, of course. He allows himself to find a shady spot, and sits down to wait. The island’s closing soon, so it shouldn’t be long. He waits and watches the carts of cheerfully screaming passengers get emptier and less frequent as the sun begins to set –

“You shouldn’t be here, Nick,” she says, sliding to sit next to him. “You haven’t even tried to hide, have you.” If she looks his way, he doesn’t feel it.

He shrugs. “They’d find me anyway. Might as well make it a time and place I expect ‘em.” He turns to look her over. “How you feeling, Kira?”

Something like a sigh escapes her lips as her head bows. “I can’t help you. You know that, right?” She looks at him through her eyelashes. “They’re only allowing _this_ meeting because we’re equals –”

“It’s been a month, and I’m not sick. What does that tell you?”

Her breath catches, her eyes going wide – then it’s wiped clear a second later. “They’ll want to know why. That’ll make it worse for you.”

A smile jerks at his mouth, even as he bites back a shiver; he can’t ask what dots she’s connected, which part of the story she’s just remembered. “All the more reason to enjoy this sunset, then,” he says instead, rocking up onto his feet. Then he offers Kira his hand. “Care to join me?”

Only the brightest stars are peeking out of the smoggy sky when Division’s trap closes on him.

SEVEN YEARS, TWO MONTHS, NINTEEN DAYS LATER

Whiskey shimmers in his glass as he tilts and rolls it, idly twisting the shades of amber into a kaleidoscope while he waits. Three years spent getting picked apart by Division, then four more struggling to remember what being human meant after he turned down their ‘job offer’ has left Nick feeling more like a hard-boiled ‘forties detective than the scared, impulsive kid he left Hong Kong as.

He’s not sure it’s an improvement.

Six weeks ago he got a postcard in the mail. It had Hong Kong’s colorful skyline on the front, and an address, date and time on the back, signed only with ‘See You Soon.’ Something about it – maybe in the handwriting – sparked hope in his chest for reasons he couldn’t name.

He hasn’t seen or heard anything from the people he left behind seven years ago, so why he dropped everything to get here’s a mystery to him. But here he sits, a good twenty minutes too early and probably stinking of BO – why the hell hadn’t he _packed_? He didn’t even bring a charger for his phone – nursing the last few bucks in his bank account and cooling his heels, waiting for the time to strike like lightning in a bottle . . . or some other mixed-up metaphor.

Familiar voices catch at his ears again, but the bar’s mirrored wall continues to show him the pair of nondescript suits cheerfully catching up with each other, so he doesn’t turn around to verify. He sighs and takes a sip instead, hunching into himself when the world goes briefly silent.

That’s never a good sign.

But the ambient noises pick up again, and he’s waving off the bartender’s gestured offer to refill his whiskey before he can think to study what’s changed. Instead, he again mourns the loss of his languages – Division stole most of what he’d learned from growing up running around the world, and what it didn’t take, it scrambled so badly that he’ll think he’s asking ‘How’s your mother’ in French when he’s calling your daughter a prostitute in Mandarin. He can still _hear_ the different languages, but he’s shit at understanding any of them anymore.

_God, I’m so pathetic._ He sets down his glass, rubs his tired eyes, and turns to check the clock again, and is surprised to see he’s just over a minute from _go_ time. He even pulls out the postcard to double-check –

The elevator under the clock dings, a vision stepping out before he can unfold the card, and Nick forgets how to breathe, staring at her.

She can’t be older than twenty-five, but she holds herself with a confidence and vitality a woman double her age would struggle to convey. She’s the clear queen of her domain, with the suits that follow her out her eager-to-please subjects. One of them grabs her hand and bows over it, gleefully kissing it over and over while she murmurs and shakes her head at his dramatics, her soft golden locks almost glowing under the light. Eventually her other hand presses against his shoulder, urging him to straighten.

Nick might be a teensy bit jealous of the poor sod, who rises with reverence in his gaze.

Her dress is a modern classic, flirting with her curves without giving everything away. It’s a pale, peachy-pink so closely matched to her skin tone that she almost looks naked. If it weren’t for the soft shimmer-shine of the silk and beadwork along the curving neckline and straps, Nick would think it was one of those see-through numbers. As it is, he can barely stand to look away long enough to focus on bringing the glass back to his mouth as he watches.

She laughs and smiles again, ducking her head as her companion compliments her. Her pinkish-gold bracelets jangle softly as she raises her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a streak of bright pink at her temple that makes Nick smile, remembering another blond who loved color –

“Don’t bother trying with our Miss Sandra,” the bartender says, jerking Nick out of the memory of a cherubic-faced, foul-mouthed thirteen-year-old to stare at him. “If she deigns to notice your existence, you will be left groveling at her feet with the rest of us, begging to worship her.” Something in Nick’s expression pushes a scowl on the bartender’s previously-friendly face, and an invisible grip suddenly tightens around his forearm enough that Nick wonders if bruises are forming. “And if, by some miracle you manage to hurt her, you _will_ live to regret it –”

“Wow, with an endorsement like that, it’s a wonder I don’t get laid more often,” the goddess suddenly quips, slipping onto the stool next to Nick. “And don’t tell me I can’t drink. I’m totally legal now – and I’ll have my usual, Pierre.”

And Nick almost chokes on his tongue. _“Cassie?”_

“ _This_ is Nick?” Pierre-the-bartender asks, disgust clear in his voice even as the vice-grip disappears.

“The one and only,” the suit-that-sounded-like-Hook says from behind Nick’s back, sliding onto the stool on his other side; Pinky suddenly appears behind Cassie’s shoulder, and Nick glances at the now-empty table to verify his suspicions. “You owe me ten bucks, kid,” Hook adds, reaching around Nick to poke Cassie’s shoulder.

Cassie rolls her eyes as Nick’s heart pounds in his throat _. Played again. I’ve been played again. Nowhere’s safe. I can’t go back. I won’t survive another round._ His vision clouds over, the bar vibrating under his arm as his hearing drowns under a drumbeat –

Something cool cradles his cheeks; warm lips press against his, and suddenly Cassie’s there, glowing like salvation as she shifts to press her forehead to his. “Breathe, Nick. You’re safe here.”

Nick’s lungs suddenly remember how to work again, heaving a gasp as he stares into her eyes. She smiles as he exhales, so he breathes deep again. He blinks when a warm hand clasps his shoulder from behind, and the world expands further to voices murmuring – he hears someone say ‘earthquake,’ but it doesn’t parse in his brain – and he blurts out the least nonsensical thing in his head: “Stop kissing me.”

Cassie snorts and releases him – _Damn it, did she take that as a **challenge**?_ – picking up a glass of what looks like champagne or sparkling water. “Don’t stop needing me,” she shoots back before taking a sip.

Nick blinks, pretty sure she’s missed his point . . . whatever it was. Pinky rubs at his goateed chin, eyes bouncing between their little group and the milling crowds in the lobby. “Maybe we should move this party to a . . . less public location,” he muses.

“Good thinking,” Cassie says, leaving her drink and grabbing Nick’s hand as she slides off her stool. “You guys mind lingering for a bit? Em’s running late.”

Pinky chuckles and Hook hums, a displease note in his tone. Nick doesn’t look back to see what’s wrong, happily absorbed in Cassie’s orbit as she leads him away.

“C’mon, lemme show you my place – the nickel and dime tour.”

“That’s an old phrase, even to my ears,” Nick grumbles as the elevator doors magically open for them.

“I’m sure if we had a lawn, you’d be telling me to get off it,” Cassie snarks back, then looks him over again while the elevator rises. Nick feels his shoulders hunch, his gaze dropping away as embarrassment heats his skin. “I’m sorry we made you feel trapped, Nick,” she says. “A misjudgment on my part. I thought you’d feel more comfortable meeting us in a public place before moving up here. It didn’t occur to me how similar it was to . . . what _she_ did.”

He tries to shrug it off as his gaze wanders, not yet ready to meet her eyes again. “‘S not your fault I’m screwed in the head.”

“Aren’t we all?” she asks, amusement in her voice.

“What do you owe Hook money for?”

“Oh, that.” She rolls her eyes again, and something relaxes in Nick’s chest. _Nothing too serious, then._ “I’ve Seen our reunion for years, but the state of your arrival changed almost every time – sometimes you’re rushing in in a panic at the last minute; others, you’ve been casing the joint for several days and are a smooth operator the entire time.” She side-eyes him, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’ve split the difference, so Pinky wins the bet.”

The elevator dings and opens, facing a short hallway separating two doors.

“Which extreme did you choose?” Nick asks, drifting after her as she heads to the left-side door.

Cassie throws him a raised eyebrow over her shoulder. “Wild-child teenager versus Mr. Bespoke Suit. What do you think?” A slight twist to the knob, and the door swings open to reveal a light-filled, airy space with warm splashes of color that invite and entice to stay awhile. Honey-brown wood anchors the floor, the ceiling decked out in shifting shades of blue as Nick enters, Cassie quickly disappearing into another room as he closes the door and wanders deeper inside.

Creamy white walls showcase canvases that marry calligraphy and color like long-lost soulmates. He edges closer to one of a girl watching the sunset against an ocean, the wind whipping her dress and hair into a frenzy, blocking her face from view. Sandals dangle from the fingers of one hand, the other pressing her sun hat against her head so the wind doesn’t steal it away.

It’s a romantic pose. Maybe that’s why it relaxes something wound tight in Nick, in spite of the frenetic energy of the piece. He breathes in deep, almost tasting the salt in the air as tears spring to his eyes. “This is you,” he says, blinking them away. (Does he mean the girl in the picture, or the artist? He doesn’t know.)

“Yes, it is,” Cassie says, suddenly three inches shorter when she comes to stand with him. She wraps her arm around his waist and leans her head against his shoulder. “My Division-related visions still have the style of a terrified third grader, but I’ve managed to refine my work to be sellable. Maybe one day I’ll repackage ‘em and call it my ‘Nightmare Series,’ or something.”

His arm rises to drape around her shoulders. He kisses the top of her head – a slightly different angle from the last time – and they stare at the painting for a long moment of silence. “Is it a sunrise, or a sunset?” he finally asks.

“It’s me, waiting for you to come back,” she says, which doesn’t answer the question at all –

Though it does explain why the sunset/sunrise has the only color, while everything else is drawn in thick swirls of black ink. Nick closes his eyes against it, once again feeling like a failure for sucking out the passion and liveliness from this girl’s life –

“Knock it off,” she says, voice dropping with authority as she turns to face him. “I was using color as a distraction. An excuse for why my beads looked like olives.” Nick snorts at the memory, and her hands raise to cradle his jaw again. She presses closer. “You forced me to go back to basics, to learn line and flow and depth. Because of you, my beads are beads now. And I have a business I can use to help others like us.” She ducks her head to hide the shine of tears, and his breath ricochets off her forehead. “You kept me safe, drove me with hope, and made me a new family to boot.” Her hands shift to clasp around his neck, and she looks back up at him. “I might’ve saved your life, Nick Gant, but you _gave_ me one. There’s no way I could thank you for that.”

“And what are we, chopped liver?” Pinky jokes from the doorway.

“No, you’re fishing for compliments,” Cassie rebuts, releasing Nick to go hug Emily. She trades sibling-like slaps with Pinky as she passes him.

“Children,” Emily scolds, her face quickly smoothing and softening with amusement. She hooks her chin over Cassie’s shoulder and closes her eyes as lace-encased hands appear in a shock of black against Cassie’s dress. “Do we have time to eat before this meeting? I’m starving,” she asks as they separate.

“Yes, food’ll be here in about ten minutes. You know the drill: make yourselves comfortable,” she glances back to Nick, “I’m gonna go change real quick.”


End file.
